


so fresh how we flow (everybody get their style from us)

by stonesnuggler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Career Ending Injuries, Connor is a journalist, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ryan is a college hockey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: In hindsight, Connor should've realized at that first presser, where got the usual soundbites from the alternates -- “it’s an honour” and “obviously it means a lot” but when they pass the question to Strome--“Getting the captaincy alongside these boys is one of the best things I could’ve hoped for,” he says. “They’re world class guys, and this program has shown us nothing but respect from the day we put on the sweater. I don’t want to speak for these guys, but I think we’re all a little humbled that they trust us enough for this responsibility.”He’s still shocked as the conference continues, nearly every question being delegated to him, even if the other guys have some good answers here and there. Ryan really is just happy to be here, Connor thinks. He means every word coming from his mouth.He’s every journalist’s dream, really.(Or: Somewhere between a column and a feature story, Connor McDavid falls in love with the captain of the hockey team.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/gifts).



> hi ki!! happy oil change!! 
> 
> i'm sure it's not very subtle who i am, but in any case. i was jazzed to see you requested connor/ryan and also had college au in your likes, so hopefully this does those justice! 
> 
> huge thanks to E and L for the constant cheerleading and the beta respectively, and of course to the best bot, alexander desprintcat. sorry to anyone reading this that actually goes to U of T bc while there was A Lot of research thrown into this, a lot is handwaved as well bc i am but a useless american.
> 
> title from opposite of adults by chiddy bang bc i still cannot let go of team north america.

Connor has been on the soccer beat for no less than twenty-five minutes when he gets called into the managing editor’s office. He’s barely even set his backpack on his desk chair, laptop still tucked under his arm, but his mind is already going through the list of potential things he could’ve done wrong. 

The list comes up empty — if only because he’s barely had time to even write the short piece he was just assigned, there’s no way he could’ve messed that up already — but that doesn’t settle the uneasy feeling in his chest as he sits in the chair in front of his editor. 

“Eventful first day so far?” Darnell says, a little frazzled, more like he’s asking the question to himself. 

Connor manages a shrug. “I have a feeling it’s about to get a bit more eventful.”

Darnell laughs, finally stops shuffling his papers. “Here’s the thing. We just learned that André is graduating a semester early.” 

Connor tilts his head. Connor has know Andre as long as he’s known he was on the soccer beat, so, all of a half an hour. The only thing he knows about him is that he’s been the paper’s hockey beat for the last three years. 

“That’s exciting,” Connor says, not sure of what else he’s supposed to say. “Will he be with the paper until then?” 

Darnell furrows his eyebrows. “Here and there,” he says, then starts rifling through his papers again. “Since he wouldn’t be around for the whole season, we’re shifting him from the beat into copy editing.” 

“Ah, okay,” Connor says, and he’s got an inkling where this is going and he doesn’t like that one bit. He sighs, scratches at the back of his neck and decides to just cut to the chase. “So what’s going to happen to the hockey beat?” 

Darnell looks visibly relieved that he doesn’t have to bring it up himself. 

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, pulling a piece of paper from the stack he was going through. Connor can see his name on it, his chicken scratch handwriting in the little boxes. “I know your preference sheet says that you’d rather not cover hockey, but I was wondering if that was able to be renegotiated.” 

And, like, here’s the thing. Connor doesn’t have an issue with hockey. How could he when he grew up playing? One of his first words was ‘goal’. It was part of his life for so long that at one point, he was convinced that his bloodstream was mostly gatorade. 

Things change, he supposes, especially when a knee-on-knee hit takes you down and you... don’t really get back up. 

“I don’t know, man,” Connor says, the phantom ache in his knee creeping back in just at the thought of being in a cold arena. He hasn’t really gone in one since the injury. “Is there anyone else?” 

“You know I wouldn’t be asking if there was,” Darnell says, a little small, and Connor does believe him. They used to play together, back in the day. Team Canada things here and there, when there were whispers of both of them making The Show. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll do it if I have to, but we both know that those who can’t do, teach.” 

Connor sighs, picks at a hangnail on his thumb. “Yeah, I can do it.” 

Darnell’s head snaps up. “Are you sure?”

“You need someone, I know what I’m talking about,” Connor reasons, and he definitely knows that he’s mostly trying to convince himself. “I can figure it out.”

“Connor McDavid, you’re a saint among men,” Darnell says, and Connor can see the relief on his face clear as day. “If it’s too much, for any reason, just let me know.” 

“Yeah, for sure,” Connor agrees. 

“Seriously, Connor, thank you so much,” Darnell says, and the sincerity is evident in his tone, his handshake, and the fairly easy assignment Connor is handed as he walks out. 

Hockey season starts in about a week and the paper wants a season preview. It’s fairly simple -- all Connor will need is a quote or two from the coach, maybe some bits from some players, and he can get all of that at the team meeting tonight where they’ll be announcing this season’s new captains. 

As he’s walking across the quad, he can’t help but take a minor detour, down a path he hasn’t been yet in his two weeks here. Until now, he hasn’t had any reason to go to the campus ice arena, but seeing as he’s going to be spending a lot of time there, it might be worth it to get the muscle memory going sooner rather than later. 

He’s stopped outside of the doors, gazing up at the name etched into the cement, painted over in the deep purple of University of Toronto. Connor’s breath catches in his lungs a little -- a phantom longing for the crisp, icy air of the rink. Shaking his head, he opens the door and heads inside, press pass in hand, just in case. 

Nobody stops him as he makes his way around the concourse, still too wary of stepping down one of the tunnels that lead to the lower bowl. He can feel the chill on his skin and it gets his blood rushing in his ears, all of his instincts fighting on whether they want him to stay and lay down at center ice or turn around and never look back.

Connor takes a deep breath and heads down the tunnel. 

The boards are up, but the glass isn’t in place yet. There are a few workers setting that up on the opposite end of the rink, thudding and pounding and scraping the plexiglass into place piece by piece. It’s nearly tempting to go sit on the edge of the boards, let his feet dangle over the edge -- so close but still too far from the feeling of blades under his feet. 

A chill settles deep in his chest that he can’t quite shake, so he decides to cut the mental anguish short, turning around and starting toward the exit. His knee aches as he scales the stairs two at time, but he manages pretty well. 

Well, until he runs smack into someone who was heading down the dark tunnel as he was heading back toward the door.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Connor says, turning to face the person he ran into, adjusting the pencil behind his ear from where it shifted on impact. 

The guy looks at him, amused smile on his face, adjusting the huge bag on his shoulders. 

“No, you’re fine,” he says, then  _ really _ looks at Connor and takes in his backpack, his U of T quarter-zip. Connor can’t help but do the same, eyes scanning over the sweatpants and the U of T hockey hoodie with a bright white 18 on the chest. Great, he’s already made a fool of himself in front of a player. “First year?”

“Guilty,” Connor says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Just checking it out. I used to play, but --” and he doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence, not sure why he started it to a complete stranger anyway. “I’m just wandering.” 

“Gotcha,” the guy says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Connor says, a little rushed and maybe a little intimidated.

He doesn’t know why he’s intimidated, seeing as this guy isn’t much bigger than him. He’s honestly a little dorky, glasses with frames that are a little to big, a few curls sticking out from under the backwards snapback on his head. He seems friendly enough, and Connor hopes he won’t give him too much trouble for quotes during the season. 

“Anyway, I’ve--” Connor starts, but the other guy nods, scratches at the back of his own neck.

“Yeah, no of course,” he says. “Good luck.”

“I’m gonna need it,” Connor says, shaking his head, then heads toward the door and out of the rink.

/

The walk to class is fairly easy, despite bumping into several other lost freshman. The mandatory campus tours provided by residence life seemed to serve him well as he made his way across campus to the communications building, and finding the room for his freshman seminar is easy if only because there are approximately thirty other people waiting near the door. 

He doesn’t think much of it when someone comes up next to him, nudges him in the side and says, “Hey, do you have a piece of gum?”

Connor looks up -- and he means up, this dude is tall and looks vaguely familiar -- and pats at his pocket, where there is definitely a pack of gum. 

“Yeah,” Connor says, reaching into his pocket and pulling the pack out. “Spearmint cool?”

The guy smiles, a glint of something mischievous in it. Connor doesn’t question it, just watches as he takes a piece of gum from the pack in Connor’s hand. 

“Perfect,” he says, unwrapping it and sticking it in his mouth. “I’m Dylan, by the way.” 

Connor tucks the pack back in his pocket and offers his hand to Dylan, shakes it as he says, “Connor. You live at University College, right?” 

Dylan tilts his head. “Yeah, how did you--” he starts, but then it must click that Connor was the one he made exasperated eye contact with during their floor meeting last week when someone asked yet another dumb question to their resident assistant. “Oh, shit, yeah! We’re on the same floor of Morrison, right?”

Connor nods. “Sure are.” 

“Sweet,” Dylan says, perking up as the door to the lecture hall opens. “At least I won’t have to suffer through this alone.” 

Connor laughs a little as they file in, grateful that Dylan seems perfectly fine with him sitting next to him vaguely near the back. 

“My brother took this same seminar his first year,” Dylan is saying, bringing the retractable desk up and settling it over his lap. “Says it’s the easiest and highest mark he ever got.” 

“He never did a damn thing in this class, did he,” Connor says, bringing his own desk up and taking his laptop out. 

“Not once,” Dylan affirms taking his own laptop out.

They’re going through the syllabus and nearly about to start the dreadful ‘what's-your-name-and-major’ bit that most professors make first years suffer through when Connor gets a text from Darnell, just the press release of the captaincy announcement. 

“Popular already?” Dylan says, underlining a line in the book he has out on top of his keyboard. 

The line of introductions has started snaking back toward them, but he has enough time to shoot back a response to Darnell before someone notices his messages open on his computer.

Connor huffs a laugh. “Just my editor. Already on deadline on the first day.” 

“Oof,” Dylan says, turning a page. The book looks worn, pages a little yellowed, and there are already lines that are underlined or highlighted, annotations filling the margins. 

“Seems like that book is pretty popular, too,” Connor says, and Dylan looks at him, flips the front cover forward with a smile. 

_ The Feminine Mystique. _ Who even is this kid?

“It’s a required reading for one of my classes, but I’ve had the syllabus for a couple months, and I… might have read it once or twice before I got here,” Dylan explains, shutting the book all together and flipping his pencil in his fingers.

Connor’s about to say something, to wonder exactly which class would still require that, when the person to Connor’s right starts introducing themselves, saying something that Connor doesn’t catch that gets somewhat of a laugh from a few people. 

The line moves on and the professor looks to Connor expectantly. He clears his throat. 

“Yeah, uh,” Connor starts. “I’m Connor, I’m a first year. I’m a journalism major, and one time I nursed a baby chipmunk back to health after my brother hit it with his bike.”

Next to him, Dylan snorts a laugh, which gets him to smile. There are a few ‘awws’ around the room and Dylan moves like he’s going to pinch his cheeks. Connor moves out of the way just in time, swatting Dylan’s hand away. 

“How sweet of you, Connor,” the professor says, nodding sincerely. “Nice to meet you. Next?”

Dylan clears his throat, says, “Yo, I’m Dylan. I’m a first year Sexual Diversity Studies major and I’m the commissioner of an annual summer road hockey league.”

“You and every other kid in ‘Sauga,” someone near the front says, and Dylan rolls his eyes. 

“Kick rocks, McLeod,” he says easily, and even that gets the professor to laugh. 

“Well, nice to meet you, Commissioner Dylan,” he says, then moves on. 

“A baby chipmunk, huh?” Dylan asks.

Connor laughs a little. “I was super torn up about it,” he says, a little indignant. “Cam was just a menace.” 

The best part about sitting the back of a class that’s only doing introductions is that at the end of Dylan and Connor’s row, they’re all dismissed and the rest of the day is theirs. 

They walk back to University together and when they get back, they realize that they live two doors down from each other. 

“I’ll see you Wednesday, then?” Dylan says, turning the lock on his door.

“Yeah, for sure,” Connor says, doing the same. “See you.”

He’s barely through the door when his phone pings with a text from his mom.

 

**Kelly / 1:37pm / 8/31**

Hope your first day went well <3 Did you make friends -- outside of the paper LOL xoxo

 

He smiles, shaking his head, but taps out a response anyway.

**Sent / 1:39pm / 8/31**

Already on deadline. But i did make a not-paper friend. I’ll call you tomorrow x

 

/

Later in the day while he’s walking around campus after lunch, he finds himself stopped in front of Varsity Arena, wishing he could find it in himself to step inside again. 

It’s not that he’s down on himself, or like, still hurting about the injury, at least not mentally. He worked on that a lot, after. Sure, he’s a little achy sometimes and the thought of being on skates again makes his heart feel like it’s going to come out of his throat, but aside from that, he’s fine. Great, even. 

It’s just that being in an ice arena --  or the thought of being in one -- this long after, shouldn’t be this... strange. 

It’s not like he even has to be on the ice. He’ll be in the locker room, maybe around the concourse, but mostly in the press box. 

Shaking his head, he sits on one of the benches outside of the arena, scrubbing his face in his hands and taking the pencil from behind his ear to twirl it in his fingers. He’s got half a mind to just text Darnell now and tell him he can’t do it, to tell him that it’s too much, but the only thing he ever quit wasn’t by choice, so he’s not going to start now. 

Instead he takes the pocket sized notebook from his jacket pocket, flips it open to the next blank page and jots down some notes about what he’ll need for the presser today. Darnell already told him that Andre would be there for support and if he needed any questions, but it’s hockey. Connor knows hockey, he’s been on both sides of this pencil. He should be fine. 

It’s not long after that that players and coaching staff start filing in the front doors, so Connor gets up from his bench and heads in. He hands his student ID and press pass to the attendant at the box office, gets checked in, and makes his way toward the press area. 

There’s a table at the front, five chairs nestled against the U of T logo-plastered backdrop. Two co-captains and two alternates, if Connor had to guess, but based on past captains here, it might be one captain and three alternates. That could be interesting to ask whoever is wearing the C. 

There are only a few chairs set up for press in the section next to the chairs set up for the team. Most of them are for student interns, Connor figures, but there are also some reserved for the local papers from Huron Sussex and Yorkville. There are a few people hanging around the back, what Connor assumes are the parents of the team members being named captains. All in all, it’s a decently chill environment, and Connor doesn’t feel entirely awful about being here. 

He’s fiddling with his recorder when someone claps him on the shoulder, and he barely has to turn his head to see who it is before he hears Andre saying, “Welcome aboard, rookie.” 

He wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t, instead shakes Andre’s hand and says, “Sorry Darnell made you come out for this, I’m sure I could’ve handled it.” 

Andre shrugs. “He hovers. Don’t worry, it’ll be your show. I’ll step in if I need to, but you’ll do fine.”

Andre does, however, take Connor over and introduce him to the head and assistant coaches. Some of them Connor knows from teams as a kid, from them being career AHLers looking for a new start. It’s those same guys whose eyes light up a little upon hearing that he’s Connor McDavid.

Well, until it’s replaced with the pity look. The ‘you were almost someone’ look. He’s not sure which one is worse.

In any case, it’s relatively painless, and Andre doesn’t seem to be looking for any explanation as to why the coaches were weird, so he’ll notch it as a win.

It’s only a couple minutes more before a few of the team members start filing into the empty seats, all in post practice attire but wearing the same hooded sweatshirt with their numbers on the chest. Connor doesn’t see the guy he ran into earlier today, but he doesn’t really think much of it. 

Everyone in the press section is handed a roster sheet with the players to be named captains, complete with numbers, vitals, and last year’s statistics. Last year’s team record is even on there, and it wasn’t awful, and a quick glance shows that at least two of the newly captained players have something to do with it. 

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” the head coach says, and the murmur of the crowd dies down. “We all know why we’re here, so let’s just cut to the chase, eh?” 

There’s a laugh from the players section, and Connor can’t help but smile at the light nature, too.

“These players that are about to be named show the characteristics of what it means to be a Varsity Blue. They dedicate themselves to their teammates, their community, and their academics, on and off the ice.” 

There’s a sniffle from the back of the room that Connor would bet belongs to a parent. 

“Without further ado, I’m honored to announce this year’s captains,” the coach says. “Wearing the A, Adam Larsson, Oscar Klefbom, and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, and with the C, Ryan Strome.” 

There’s whoops and hollers from the team section, and polite clapping from the rest of the room as the captains are each handed their newly-lettered jerseys and take their place on the stage. It takes Connor until they’re on the stage, snapping through picture after picture to realize that the bespectacled boy he ran into at the rink today sure is one of the Ryan’s called -- better yet, he’s the one with the C, newly sewn over his heart.

“There will be a brief moment for questions before we let the boys go and celebrate with their families,” the head coach says, and Connor jumps at the chance right away.

“Hey, guys, Connor McDavid with The Varsity,” he starts, and they all offer a smile. Strome definitely recognizes him, tilts his head a little with his smile. “You’ve all been a huge part of this team since you came aboard in twenty-eleven, what does it mean to each of you to have this respect and authority from your teammates?” 

He gets the usual soundbites from the alternates -- “it’s an honour” and “obviously it means a lot” but when they pass the question to Strome--

“Getting the captaincy alongside these boys is one of the best things I could’ve hoped for,” he says. “They’re world class guys, and this program has shown us nothing but respect from the day we put on the sweater. I don’t want to speak for these guys, but I think we’re all a little humbled that they trust us enough for this responsibility.” 

Connor is… maybe a little surprised at how much of a well formed answer he got. Athletes usually aren’t the most eloquent, but Ryan? He answers every question so easily, but the sincerity and thought put into his answers are what shocks Connor the most. 

He’s still shocked as the conference continues, nearly every question being delegated to him, even if the other guys have some good answers here and there. Ryan really is just happy to be here, Connor thinks. He means every word coming from his mouth. 

He’s every journalist’s dream, really.

“Alright, that’s all the questions we’ll be taking today,” the assistant coach says, and Connor is glad that he had his recorder running because he doesn’t have a single physical note on what the captains or the coaches were saying this whole time. “Thank you for coming out. The boys will be around for a bit to answer a few more questions if you need.”

The conference hall starts to clear out a little later, most of the team begging out and shouting about celebratory drinks, but the captains do hang around and Connor jumps at the opportunity to talk to a few of their parents, and a couple of the team members that hang around. 

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Strome,” Connor says, shutting off his recorder after getting a pretty decent bite from Ryan's mom. “You must be very proud.”

She nods, the fondest smile on her face. “He’s worked very hard for this moment, I’m sure this is only the beginning.”

“Don’t go getting all emotional on me now,” Connor hears from behind him, and sure enough, Ryan is walking up to them. “I hope she didn’t say anything too embarrassing.” 

Connor laughs a little as Ryan hugs his parents. “An NHL baby blanket, huh?”

“Dammit,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “Always the baby blanket.”

“Nothing too incriminating,” Connor says, holding up his recorder. “Guess you’ll have to wait for the article.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Ryan says, then holds out his hand. “Ryan, by the way.”

“Connor,” Connor says dutifully as he shakes Ryan’s hand, and then he can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re an incredible quote.” 

Ryan smiles, a little bashful. “I do my best,” he says, dropping Connor’s hand.

It’s quiet for a beat, just Connor and Ryan looking at each other for a split second before Connor clears his throat. 

“Anyway, I’ve gotta run,” he says, waving his hand absently. “Deadline.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Ryan says. “Nice to officially meet you, first year.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as Ryan turns to talk to reporters from another paper.

Things wrap up shortly after, and by the time he’s home, Connor has already listened through about ten minutes of the audio on his recorder in preparation for transcribing.

By ten that night, Connor’s got most of his interviews transcribed and a tentative lede planned out, which is pretty impressive considering the hour of audio he had to listen to. Even more impressive considering that all of Ryan’s answers were at least a minute long.

The article itself is easy enough, once Connor actually buckles down to write it. A blurb about the new captains, how those new captains fared in playoffs, their career totals with the Varsity Blues, tied up with quotes from the parents and there you have it -- a near perfect primer. 

He reads it over twice, and makes a few tweaks himself before uploading it to their editing server, pinging Darnell that it’s all his, then settles in to get ready for bed. 

There’s loud music playing in the room to his right, laughter in the room to his left, and maybe this isn’t the most fun Connor’s had since he moved in two weeks ago, but it’s definitely the instance where he’s felt the most like he belongs. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once this is all posted, i'm going to reformat it as a whole story instead of chapters! this will be done by 9/30 at the very latest.

When he gets into the office the next morning, clutching his travel mug like his life depends on it, Connor is instantly greeted by Darnell, who seems too happy to be awake and sitting at a desk at nine in the morning. 

“I’d ask how the first day went, but this speaks for itself,” Darnell says, holding up what Connor assumes to be his article. “Few things for you to tweak, but it’s good to go as soon as you change ‘em. This is great, Connor.” 

Connor smiles, tucks his free hand in his pocket with a shrug. “Thanks, man.” 

“Since that came pretty easy to you,” Darnell says, “I’ve got another assignment for you.” 

“Okay,” Connor says, setting his stuff down at his desk. “What is it?” 

“That Strome guy,” Darnell says, and Connor quirks an eyebrow. “I peeked at his stats and he’s on pace to beat a school record that hasn’t been broken in literal decades. See if you can do something with that.”

Connor’s eyes widen a little, impressed. “Like what? A feature?”

Darnell shrugs. “If you want. Creative liberty on this. I try and do this with all the new beats, toss you out into the world and see what you can do.”

Connor nods, considering, already reaching for his notebook, pulling his pencil from behind his ear. 

“Tweak that article and then come to me with a few ideas before you head to class,” Darnell says. “We’ll figure out which one works best.”

“Sounds good,” Connor says, already scribbling out a few ideas.

If Ryan’s on pace to beat records, he could talk to the person who set them, granted that they’re still alive. The record was set in the fifties, so it’s not a far stretch to believe either way. 

After a solid hour of gathering stats and names, he’s almost got an outline, and he definitely has a schedule where he can try and run the idea by Ryan. Practices are every other day until the season really kicks up, dropping to twice a week with morning skates before their weekend games. He makes a point to download the schedule to his phone calendar, noting that there’s a practice that lines up with the end of his last class of the day. 

Darnell didn’t give him a deadline, but better to be proactive he supposes, so he decides to head over as soon as he gets out of class. 

During class, though, is a whole different animal. Another day in the first week, another syllabus to go through, so Connor finds himself thinking about the rink and the things that lie ahead for the next few months. He’s jittery, anxious in a way that’s not scary -- like the energy before you hit the ice, or before you get on a rollercoaster. It’s a little exhilarating, enough so that his handwriting is worse than usual as he scrambles to write down questions as they come to mind.

The person next to him suddenly looks over at his hand flying across the page, then snaps back to where the professor is drawling on about syllabi, the sheer panic of whether or not they’re missing something, but Connor keeps writing things out. 

By the end of the class period, Connor’s got some pretty solid questions to get a feel for this Strome guy. 

/ 

The walk from the Communications building to Varsity Arena is easy enough, and he only has to scan his ID as he walks in to get access to the rink. 

There are still a few guys on the ice, skating easy circles, some handling a puck, some just doing lazy crossovers. Connor recognizes the head coach from the presser by his voice before he sees him on the ice, scribbling something out on the glass in a dry-erase marker. From what he can see -- and what he can read backwards -- it looks like a new penalty kill, or at least a variation on their old one. 

Connor grabs for his blue pocket-sized notebook -- the one he’s designated for the team where things are all encompassing -- and jots down a few notes. 

_ Penalty kill _ __  
_ -> 18, 93, 6, 5 _ _  
_ __ -> two f, two d??

The players scatter from the glass and set up to run the play, and Connor settles into one of the arena seats, opening up his Twitter and snapping a quick picture of the ice, attaching it to his post. 

 

 **Connor McDavid** @C_McDavid

The first practice under new captains is just starting to wrap at Varsity Arena! The Varsity Blues and their new-and-improved penalty kill will take on Canisius College in their first preseason bout tomorrow at 7pm. 

 

Practice winds up soon after, any of the players that are left meandering toward the bench, so Connor makes his way down as he sees Ryan skating across toward the bench, recognizable only by the bright white eighteen on his back and his bright white smile as someone sprays him with a water bottle. 

He spots Connor as he’s going through the gate to the bench, waving before grabbing his extra stick and heading toward the tunnel, where Connor is tucked against the bannister. 

“Hey, first year,” he says, smile bright and face still flushed from practice. “Connor, right?” 

“Yeah,” Connor affirms. “You got a minute? It’s paper stuff, I want to run something by you.” 

“For sure,” Ryan says easily. “Meet me in the players lounge in ten?” 

“Yeah, cool,” Connor says, and then Ryan disappears down the tunnel. 

It takes him about ten minutes to find the way down to the players lounge, committing the path to memory so it’s easy to do after games, and by the time he gets down there, Ryan’s seated on one of the beat up couches, idly scrolling on his phone as he munches on an apple.

“Hey,” Connor says. “Sorry, these hallways are a maze.”

Ryan laughs a little, motions for Connor to sit, so he pulls up a chair from the table next to the kitchenette and turns it backwards before sitting down. 

“What’s up?” Ryan asks, pocketing his phone and taking another crunching bite of his apple. 

Connor explains his assignment, runs through a couple of his ideas, and the entire time, he has Ryan’s undivided attention. He has a sneaking suspicion this assignment is going to be easy, if only for Ryan’s cooperation. 

“So, I was thinking we could do a series of shorter pieces,” Connor explains, flipping through his notebook. “Kind of following your journey through juniors, your decision to play college, things like that. All surmounting to that one thing that you’re on pace to do.”

“You played, didn’t you,” Ryan says, not a question, with a bit of a smile on his face. 

Connor quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Yeah. Why?”

“ _ That thing you’re on pace to do _ ,” Ryan repeats, only a little mocking. “Spoken like a true superstitious athlete.”

Connor shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “You caught me,” he says, then quickly, “does that sound good though?”

Ryan nods. “Yeah, dude, of course. You’re gonna be doing post game stuff, too, yeah?” 

“Should be,” Connor says, shrugging. “I’m pretty sure that’s most of my job description. You’re gonna have to get used to me.”

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Ryan says, a bit of a smirk on his face that Connor absolutely does  _ not _ read into. 

In the silence thereafter, Ryan’s phone starts chiming in his hand. He stands up, starts typing “Shit. I’ve gotta run,” he says, then looks at Connor. “But, hey, let me get your number so we can figure out details for this piece.”

Connor blinks, then shakes himself out of it soon after, rattling off his phone number as Ryan plugs it into his phone. 

“Sweet,” he says, saving the number, making his way to the door of the locker room. “I’ll text you with when I’m available sometime tonight.” 

“Sounds good,” Connor says, and then Ryan’s gone through the double doors. 

The walk back to Morrison is filled with perfectly crunchy leaves, and Connor’s glad he tucked a toque in his backpack. By the time he scans his ID to get into the residence hall, he’s got a text from an unknown number -- three hockey related emoji -- and a new energy to get started on this piece.

/

At the end of the first week, Connor’s got three assignments that need to be done and two hockey games to cover, not to mention starting on the feature piece, which means finding time with Ryan. 

He feels a little out of control, a little like he’s got three hundred things to do and no time to do any of it, but honestly?

He loves it. 

Busy work has always been a favorite of his, and now that he has someone like Dylan to sit in the lounge and do that busy work with, it’s even better. Especially since they found out last week that they’re also in a couple of general ed courses together.

“Do you know what he wants from this magical realism paper, or are we just bullshitting about, like, Greek Gods in modern day situations?” Dylan asks of their literature class, rubbing at his eyes as he lets his book fall shut. Connor shrugs, deletes a comma where Darnell told him to, scrolls a little before finding the next correction marking. “No clue.” 

“Me either,” Dylan says, letting his head tip back against the couch. “Oh well. What’s got you glaring?”

Connor looks up, realizes that he was probably hyperconcentrated on his screen, and blinks away the furrow in his brow. “Just stuff for the paper. I’m the second edit on this piece and it’s gotta go out by tomorrow.” 

“You look like you’re having the time of your life,” Dylan says, sarcastically and Connor actually manages a smile at that.

He shrugs. “It’s actually pretty fun, I’m not gonna lie,” he says, and Dylan snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes. 

“You’re something else,” he says, tucking his book in his backpack. “I’ve gotta run to econ. Wanna work on that project for lit tomorrow after class?” 

Connor hums, checks his phone, and sees he’s going to the game at Canisius. “Nah, I’m traveling with the paper and we’ll head out right class. I’ll catch you when I’m back though.”

“Cool,” Dylan says. “I’ll catch you later.” 

“See ya,” Connor says, deleting another comma and going to close his laptop, but just as he tips the screen down, his computer pings and his phone buzzes.

 

**Ryan Strome / 9/12 / 2:37p**

Hey! You’re coming with the team tomorrow, right?

And like, here’s the thing. Connor’s trying really hard to be as normal as possible, especially since Darnell was pretty interested in Connor’s accidental pitch of a feature series, meaning he’ll have to spend even  _ more _ time with Ryan than that of a normal feature story. 

That said, he definitely drafts his message a couple times before finally hitting send, only cringing slightly when does. 

 

**Sent / 9/12 / 2:39p**

Yeah :)  It’ll be me and one of the photographers. Why, what’s up?

 

**Ryan Strome / 9/12 / 2:40p**

Sweet. Figured the bus ride would give us time to get some of this story started. 

 

That’s… a first, Connor isn’t going to lie. He was fully prepared to have some kind of meeting with Ryan at the rink, maybe after he gets his pregame interviews done and they still have a minute before they suit up. Ryan reaching out to him, though? That’s new and a little bit fun.

Shaking himself out of it, he texts Ryan back a thumbs up emoji, hoping that’s answer enough for him, then closing his laptop.

The road trip on his mind, he leaves the lounge and heads to his room to throw a bag together, haphazardly folding some button down shirts and shoving in his favorite hoodie. It’s almost second nature to throw in his travel bag of extra chargers, his camera, back-up batteries for his recorder, and at least three extra memory cards of varying sizes. 

It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, okay? 

Stuff tucked into his duffel bag and set by his door, Connor’s content to lay in bed, a Leafs preseason game playing on the television as he scrolls on his phone. His readings for class can wait a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is _nearly_ done but i wanted to make sure all the best parts had time to become what they needed. postings should happen weekly -- the next chapter will be posted at author reveals!


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